What You Don't Know
by Shade Asylum
Summary: She doesn't know. He doesn't know. She can only watch it happen. My very late angst submission for Pezberry week.


It was passionate and fierce without actually being punishing or painful. She had many talents; this was just among the ones she was more humble about. It only took her moments to get me to that place where my vision blurred, my voice rose, and my body moved of its own accord. I couldn't tell how many times we'd passed that burning torch between one another except that it had been just too long and one time too many. Lost in our ecstasy we'd missed too much.

I was coming down from my high, clinging to the traces of it just as the tiny brunette relaxed over me. Wisps of hair met my hot skin, glued to my sweat drenched skin. The heat was almost unbearable but at the same time I couldn't bare the thought of losing the feeling of the nose and lips moving just below my jaw. Our breathing was a beautiful ebb and flow as our slowing pants ran together; her exhale coming with my inhale, only interrupted by the weary moan she received in response to the connection broken. She tried to console me, gentle fingers painted patterns across my hip with my pleasure but it wasn't the same. It didn't seem possible to me, and as for her, I don't know if it crossed her mind, but the euphoria we'd discovered was tainted.

I hadn't realized my eyes were closed until Rachel stiffened violently on top of me. I cracked my eyes, ready to ask what was wrong but found my voice stolen away as I met conflicted eyes glowing with anger and confusion, even in the dimly lit room. I didn't know who he was but I knew that the pain marring what were probably usually handsome features warranted my guilt. Immediately I know that I was the intruder in this home, the unwelcome guest. I didn't know what to do. My only choice was to watch the scene unfold before me.

"Why, Rachel?" He asked, all of the pain, confusion, and emotion vanishing in a move I vaguely recognized.

She had no answer; she just sat up, moving before me as she drew up the sheet that had migrated to the foot of the bed.

"Why, Rachel?" He repeated, breaking up the question as his voice rose slightly.

In a voice weaker than I'd ever heard her use she whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Why?" He all but shouted in a fit. He reined himself in before continuing, "Why? Why here? Why in our home? What did I-" he shook his head, "What could have possibly driven you to-" he shook again, copper curls settling lifelessly as he struggled with thoughts and words. "I thought we- I thought we were okay, I thought you loved me."

Rachel couldn't hold back a sob and part of me wanted to comfort her and assure her his accusations weren't true, but another part of me, a bigger part, knew that I was the evidence that they were.

"I know it's been," he sighed, deflating without his anger, "Tough but-"

"Tough? Jesse, it hasn't been tough, it's been horrible," Rachel finally found her voice. It was strained and thick as if she would start crying, "You're never here and when you are I'm the least of your worries."

"That's not fair," he argued, "You put just as much of yourself into performing as I do when you-"

"Putting myself into a performance isn't the same as putting yourself into a cast-member," she challenged, venom oozing from each of her words.

Jesse blanched and tried to draw up his anger again but it wouldn't come as easily, "I didn't mean- It was just- Rachel!"

"No Jesse," she stood up, drawing the sheet with her, "You can't just act like it didn't happen."

"It didn't mean anything," he tried, "And this doesn't either."

"Jesse," she sighed, losing her aggression as her voice softened, "It means we're over."

His face was a wheel, spinning recklessly for a moment as emotions flashed dangerously across his face. "You can't do that Rachel. What happened to taking Broadway together? What about getting married?" He demanded, his voice growing steadily more aggressive.

"I can't Jesse, look at us," she waved between them, "What kind of marriage would that be?"

"A better one," he tried, "We could fix it."

She looked torn between pity and pleading as she shook her head.

"No," he snapped, reaching up to clutch his hair, "No, you can't just give up," he shook his head violently, "The Rachel I know doesn't give up," he turned to walk out of the room, "Let's just sit down and talk, please."

"I didn't 'just' give up," she sighed, following him out of the room, and the discussion became muffled, except for the shouts, but I didn't bother listening to those.

I stayed in the room trying to process everything. Rachel was cheating. I was the person she'd cheated with. She'd cheated on Jesse. It probably doesn't seem like much to take in but up until a few moments before I'd thought we were actually together. Instead, I was finding out I was just some revenge plot against the ex who'd already cheated on her. Sure, I'd had my share of scandals and trysts before but I'd actually taken this seriously, and all it got me was plenty of time to get dressed in my own silent shame. I was almost done when a door slammed outside of the room.

"I'm so sorry," Rachel came back in the room, her eyes puffy as she wiped away the streams from her cheeks.

"Don't worry," I assured, buttoning up my shirt, although the sides were uneven.

She took in the sight of me quickly, "Are you going too?"

"No," I scoff, grabbing my shoes as I pass her, "I'm going to sit around and wait for another fiancé."

"That wasn't supposed to happen," she defended, "He was supposed to be out of town."

"That doesn't make it better Rachel," I assure, incredulous as I check my pockets for my phone.

"It's over," she interjected, "I can't be with him and I want-"

"Want what? Me?" I laughed at that, "And what happens when I fuck up? Are you going to cheat on me too?"

"No," she claimed, "Please don't Santana," she cried, "I couldn't stay with him. I want to be with you. I would never do that to you."

I scoffed at that, still moving for the same door Jesse just left through.

"Please," she begged, grabbing my arm as she pressed her forehead to my shoulder.

Shaking arms slid around my neck and I realized she was crying, far harder than before, "I can't do that."

"Please," she repeated, "Please don't go."

My resolve began breaking down as I gripped her wrists, weakly trying to push her away, "No."

"Please," she sobbed into my shirt, gripping the fabric at my shoulders.

I wanted to deny her, leave the apartment and change my number, but I couldn't bring myself to do more than stare at the door.


End file.
